Unexpected
by EyesBeenStarry
Summary: One rainy day, Harry has an unexpcted visitor. This visitor brings surprises.


Title: Unexpected, Chapter One  
Author: Tariana Adren  
Fandom: Harry Potter

Pairing: Eventual Harry/Draco, minor mentions of Harry/Ron, Harry/OMC, Draco/OMC

Rating: Eventual M/R. This chapter: T () PG-13 (others) for non-graphic discussion of homosexuality. Any future rating changes will be noted in that chapter's notes.  
Word Count: 8300 this chapter  
Spoilers: For all 7 books, in a general sense. If you haven't read them all by now, why are you here?  
Summary: One rainy afternoon, Harry gets an unexpected visitor. This visitor brings surprises.

Notes: It just... grew. I started out fully intending to write a one-shot, really I did. I hope you'll enjoy the beginning of this hopefully much longer story, anyway. It's a work in progress.

Feedback/Constructive Criticism: Yes, it would be greatly appreciated. I would like to hear your comments, suggestions for things you would like to see. You can leave it at my journal (tariana.) if you prefer, or on any other site where this story is archived.

Unexpected

by Tariana Adren

Chapter One: The Visitor

"Meow!"

Harry Potter opened the front door of his flat, looked down, and saw at his feet a small, sleek cat looking up at him. It was awfully small for such a big voice, but he'd heard it just after he'd shut the door after he'd come in with his groceries, meowing insistently. It had short, sleek, grey fur and startlingly large green eyes. Its fur was damp, and he thought it looked rather pitiful.

It meowed yet again, and Harry knelt to pet it. No collar, no identification. Not thin enough to be a stray, he thought. Maybe it had wandered too far from its home to return during the storm. On his way home from the market, a near-downpour had started, and he was more than a little damp himself.

"Okay, fine. You can come in until it stops raining, anyway."

Harry stood and watched in bemused silence as the cat walked into the flat as if it... well, as if it owned the place. Despite its dampness, it somehow managed to look regal and haughty.

"Come on, kitty," Harry said. "Don't you have a home?"

The cat simply sat down on its haunches and looked at him imperiously. Then it proceeded to drip water all over his hardwood floors as it walked over to the bench under the large picture window in the living room, hopped up, and began cleaning itself.

The cat licked at its damp fur as Harry carried the small bag of groceries he'd bought into the kitchen. He put the kettle on to heat for tea, then went to find some dry clothes. When he was dry and starting to warm up, he put the groceries away, switched the laundry from the washer to the dryer, then turned and walked back into the living room, where he got the shock of his life.

Well, maybe not the shock of his whole life. He supposed finding out he was a wizard beat this. And he was sure that finding out that a deranged, evil wizard wanted to kill him beat this. But still, this was pretty good as far as shocks of his life went.

Where the cat had been, there now sat a young man. A young man wearing long black robes, which Harry noted were also dripping water onto his floor. A young man with mussed white-blond hair that nearly reached the bottoms of his ears. A young man who looked up at Harry with grey eyes that held a touch of cold humor. A young man who, Harry noticed, held two wands in his hands – both of them very familiar to Harry. One was his, of course, and he'd been on the receiving end of the other often enough that it was also familiar to him.

A young man who smirked and asked, "Looking for this, Potter?" while twirling Harry's wand tauntingly.

"Malfoy!" Harry spat, walking toward the other man. He stopped in front of Malfoy and said, "Give me my wand."

"Miss me, Potter? Long time, no see." Malfoy stood and Harry was disgusted to find that he had to look up to meet Malfoy's eyes. Evidently, where Harry had missed the last growth spurt he should have had, it hadn't missed Malfoy, and now instead of being almost on eye level, Malfoy was several inches taller than Harry. He now smirked down at Harry.

Harry closed his eyes briefly, willing himself to be calm. It didn't work.

He gave up and opened his eyes again. Yes, the blond boy – no, man, Harry reminded himself – Malfoy was now 20, just as Harry himself was – was still there, much to Harry's consternation. He was taller, yes, but still appeared to be as rail-thin as ever, and as Harry looked at Malfoy, he noticed slight dark circles under his eyes. His cloak was also a bit rumpled – not at first obvious, but upon closer inspection, definitely not up to the anal standards Malfoy had held himself to the last time Harry had seen him.

Suddenly, the Floo belched, spitting out Kingsley Shacklebolt in a great burst of light and smoke – a very annoyed-looking Kingsley Shacklebolt, Harry noted with some alarm. An annoyed-looking Kingsley Shacklebolt was not someone you wanted coming through your Floo. Luckily, Harry also noted that the annoyance on Kingsley's face was directed at Malfoy, who Harry was sure richly deserved it.

"Mr. Malfoy," Kingsley began warningly.

"My, my, we must have gotten separated on the way here." Malfoy said, then added with a smirk, "I wonder how that happened." He handed Harry's wand back.

And Harry didn't believe that for even a second – it was Malfoy, after all – but that was beside the point, really.

The point was... what in hell were Kingsley and Malfoy doing in his living room? When had Malfoy become an animagus, and why hadn't anyone thought to tell Harry about this? He had simply let someone who had been one of his worst enemies for most of his life in through his front door, because he hadn't known Malfoy could take the form of a cat. More recent history between them was slightly more favorable, but it still didn't mean he wanted Malfoy waltzing in unannounced. His wards were configured so that for most people, an invitation was required for them to enter. There were exceptions – Ron and the rest of the Weasleys, Hermione, and a few Aurors in case he needed their protection.

And... why in hell WERE Kingsley and Malfoy in his living room?

"Harry," Kingsley said, bringing Harry's focus back to him. "I need to set some further wards on your flat, Harry, and adjust the existing ones. If Mr. Malfoy is going to stay here..."

"What the bloody hell? Stay here? Why? And how is he... why didn't anyone tell me he was an animagus?" Harry asked incredulously.

"Believe me, Potter," Malfoy broke in. "It wasn't my choice of places to stay, here in this... this Muggle hovel... surrounded with Muggle things... and millions of Muggles... and YOU." Malfoy glanced around disdainfully.

"Then why are you here?" Harry snapped.

"Because I have no choice." For the first time, the haughty tone of Malfoy's voice faltered and Harry heard – a trace of fear? Surely not. Harry shook his head again, hoping to clear it of the scene that was happening in front of his eyes.

"Some of Voldemort's lower-ranking followers have survived and seem to be organizing," Kingsley began, "and they're not happy with Mr. Malfoy's, erm... divided loyalties during the war. We have intelligence that suggests they have regrouped, and we believe you may be in danger, Harry, as well as Mr. Malfoy. An attempt was made on his life a few days ago."

Hrm, Harry thought. The only real loyalty Malfoy ever had, as far as he could see, was to Malfoy. Harry still wasn't thoroughly convinced that Malfoy had really switched sides, and although some of the reconnaissance he'd brought the Order as a double agent had greatly aided in the defeat of Voldemort, there was too much history between Harry and Malfoy for Harry just to trust him completely. After all, Malfoy's help in the war had assured him he would stay out of Azkaban, instead of going there with the rest of the Death Eaters.

"... and as your flat is already one of the best-warded places that we know of, you and Mr. Malfoy will be safe here until the remaining Death Eaters have been captured."

"Absolutely not. Isn't there anyplace else?" Harry asked desperately. "Or he can stay here, and I'll go to the Burrow , or –"

"No, Harry. You need to stay here, too. They will be looking for you, as well – they aren't very happy with you either, you can be sure. And you don't want to put the Weasleys in danger, do you?"

Harry closed his eyes again. His day had been going so well, so uneventfully. He'd had a perfectly anonymous trip to the market, after a perfectly anonymous walk around the neighborhood. No one had bothered him, or tried to take his photo, or asked him for an interview. No one had even known who he was. This was part of the reason he'd moved to Muggle London in the first place – because he didn't want the Wizard world's intrusion on his life any longer. The weather today wasn't the greatest, but all in all, it had started out a thoroughly enjoyable day. He should have known it was too good to last.

Harry pushed his glasses up his nose, then rubbed his fingers over his scar in an unconscious gesture. "But they don't know where I am, do they? Who are these Death Eaters, anyway? I thought you were supposed to have rounded them all up."

"We believe they don't know where you are, and we aren't entirely sure of their identities. But in any case, when you need to leave the flat, you will need to notify us of your plans – where you are going and when you plan to return."

Oh, brilliant. Kingsley was not backing down. Not only was he stuck with Malfoy, of all people, he was also stuck reporting his every move like a five-year-old child with an overprotective mother.

"And when I use the loo, will you want to know that, as well?" Harry asked smartly, knowing it was a bad idea to mess with Kingsley, but not caring at the moment.

"I would think you would be a little more grateful for our help, Mr. Potter," Kingsley said, clearly annoyed.

Harry felt a bit ashamed – he really knew that the Aurors were only doing their job, however annoying that job might be to him personally. Mostly, he still felt annoyed – they had to have known about this for some time, this reorganization of the Death Eaters. And if Malfoy was attacked two days ago, they had had plenty of time to tell him about it. Once again, it seemed he was the last to be notified about things that affected him.

"What did they try to do to Malfoy?" Harry asked suddenly, curious what these new Voldemort wannabes had up their robe sleeves.

"They attacked the Manor," Malfoy answered. "Mother and I were at our home in France, and I received an owl that I believed to be from Gringott's, asking me to come to the Manor to deal with some of Father's belongings that had been found in a secret room. When I arrived, I was attacked. I was able to Apparate away --"

"But not before being hit with Cruciatus," Kingsley interjected.

Malfoy had had the presence of mind to Apparate while under Cruciatus? Whatever else he might be, he appeared to have considerable magical strength if he could do that. Harry felt an entirely unwelcome surge of respect for Malfoy.

That didn't stop him from pleading with Kingsley again that Malfoy not stay there, but to no avail. Kingsley quickly reconfigured the wards, setting them to allow Malfoy in and out, and adding some additional security, and then left Harry and Malfoy alone, admonishing them again that if either of them went outside the flat they were to notify the Aurors.

Malfoy shrugged out of his cloak and slung it over his arm, revealing underneath grey wool pants and a grey short-sleeved sweater that Harry supposed was cashmere, then walked across the room and picked up a small rucksack Harry hadn't noticed before. With another one of those smirks – Harry wondered exactly how many smirks it would take before he wanted to punch the smirk right off Malfoy's face – Malfoy said, "Well, flatmate... where's my room?"

"You are not my flatmate," Harry said angrily. "You are an -- an interloper!"

Malfoy laughed without humor. "An interloper? Oh, get over yourself, Potter. Savior of the Wizard World you may be --"

"I saved your sorry arse, Malfoy, more than once during the war. My testimony afterward helped keep you out of Azkaban!"

"Certainly," Malfoy agreed. "And since you have such an enormous hero complex, I'm sure you'll be glad to save my life again by allowing me to stay here."

Harry opened his mouth to retort, to say that he would rather see Malfoy on the street, or anywhere else for that matter, then shut it again. No matter what he might think of Malfoy personally, he couldn't see himself kicking the other man out into the night, into the rain, with only a small rucksack of belongings between him and the world.

Harry shook his head. No, he felt honor-bound to let Malfoy stay. That didn't mean it was going to be pleasant.

"All right, Malfoy. You can stay. But we are not flatmates, nor mates of any kind. And as soon as it is safe, you will leave. Understood?"

"Yes, Potter," Malfoy replied. "If you believe I really want to stay here, you are a bigger fool than I thought."

Harry sighed resignedly and started down the hall. Malfoy followed, and Harry opened the door to Ron's old room. It was reasonably clean, although on the small side, and not fancy. Ron had had mostly second- or third-hand furniture, most of which he'd left with Harry after moving in with Hermione a few months before.

A sturdy but rather ugly double bed and a slightly beaten-up nightstand and dresser pretty much completed the furnishings of the room. Malfoy walked over and sat gingerly on top of the faded green bedspread. He set the rucksack down beside him and opened it. He pulled out what looked like a set of clothes, and perhaps a set of pajamas, as well as a book and a few other odds and ends. Harry wondered if that was the sum total of Malfoy's possessions – he assumed it wouldn't be safe for Malfoy to return to Malfoy Manor for awhile. It looked like they might need to go clothes shopping in the near future.

"I'll show you around and then you can put your things away," Harry offered, deciding to play nice – as long as Malfoy did, which likely wouldn't be long -- and Malfoy stood again, leaving his small pile of possessions on the bed. Harry led Malfoy past his bedroom – slightly larger and better-outfitted than Malfoy's, but probably spare by most people's standards, the loo, the living room, and into the kitchen.

"Refrigerator, microwave, washer, dryer," Harry pointed them out, and turned to find Malfoy looking at the appliances with an expression of mingled disgust and fear. Harry suddenly remembered that Malfoy had likely never even seen any of these things, let alone used them. He would have to explain, then. He felt a sudden surge of sympathy for Malfoy, but tamped it down firmly.

"Well, you see, the food is in here," he said, opening the refrigerator door. "Sandwich things, soda, beer... you can have whatever you want."

Harry leaned back to let Malfoy look in the fridge, and was baffled when Malfoy said commandingly, "Pumpkin juice!" Of course, nothing happened.

"What's wrong with it?" Malfoy asked, looking annoyed.

"Wha... oh, you can't make it produce things that aren't there. It isn't like a house elf that you can command."

Harry was pretty sure he heard Malfoy mutter something containing the words "barbaric Muggles" and decided they'd save the rest of the appliances for another day. He didn't relish explaining the microwave – or anything else, for that matter, to this rude, overbearing snob. How anyone could get under his skin as easily as Malfoy had always been able to, he didn't know. Every time he started to feel even slightly sorry for Malfoy, the prat did or said something that brought Harry right back to the reality that Malfoy was still a jerk underneath all the posturing.

Harry and Malfoy returned to Malfoy's room after the short tour, and Harry left him there to put away his few belongings.

He walked back to the kitchen, where he refilled the kettle, which had nearly boiled dry, and started setting out the preparations for sandwiches. He'd make Malfoy one, since he was sure Malfoy probably didn't even know how, seeing as how he'd probably always had house elves to cater to his every whim.

Suddenly, he heard Hermione's voice calling through the Floo.

"Harry, are you at home?"

Harry walked to the living room and saw Hermione's head in the fire.

"Yes, come on through," he invited her.

Soon, the rest of Hermione's body followed her head out of the fireplace, followed also by the tall, lanky figure of Ron.

"Hullo, Harry," Ron said, clapping Harry on the shoulder. Harry smiled up at the large, ginger-haired man, suddenly feeling as though he missed Ron's presence very much. If Ron had still been living here, there wouldn't have been an extra room for Malfoy to move into, and he wouldn't have this very troublesome house-guest. But there was no help for it now.

"Stay for tea?" Harry asked. "There's just sandwiches."

Ron and Hermione agreed, and followed Harry into the kitchen, where Harry finished setting out the meal. Neither of them noticed that Harry had already been working on the second sandwich for Malfoy, which now became Ron's.

Ron made some small talk, about his job at Weasley's Wizard Wheezes with George, and Hermione told Harry of the progress made at Hogwarts thus far this year. She had taken over Madam Pince's job as librarian, and was hard at work reorganizing the entire library. Harry didn't envy her the job – it was a huge task, and there were more than a few cursed books among the lot, as well as other delights, such as books that bit you if you didn't handle them correctly, books that spontaneously re-numbered their pages, and many other things. Harry, for his turn, told them what was going on with his job. His work at a Muggle bookstore was interesting and anonymous, if not terribly rewarding. At least the books there weren't going to attack him.

Hermione had brought a stack of Daily Prophets – Harry no longer subscribed – and Harry flipped idly through them. He was still mentioned more often than he would have strictly liked, but not nearly as often as he used to be, so that was some improvement, at least. There was still speculation about where he was living, as there had been ever since he'd moved to Muggle London a year ago, but no one really seemed to have a concrete idea of where he was. That was fine by him.

Harry had a bad moment near the end of the meal when he heard the squeak of the hinges on the second bedroom – Malfoy's bedroom – door.

Oh, God. Malfoy was going to walk right into the kitchen, and Hermione and Ron would know he was here, and Harry was going to have a lot of explaining to do. "I didn't have any choice" wasn't going to be acceptable to Ron, who would probably Floo his dad, who was higher in the Ministry these days, and insist that Malfoy be taken somewhere else. But to Harry, it hadn't sounded as though there was anywhere for Malfoy to go, and after the day he'd had, a shouting match with Ron was not something Harry wanted. Ron was definitely the "yell first and ask questions later" type and Harry just wasn't up to it. He already had a headache.

Malfoy did walk right into the kitchen, of course, looking imperious, tail held high and waving. At the cat's arrival, Hermione gasped.

"Harry! I didn't know you'd gotten a cat... he's beautiful!"

"Where'd you get him?" Ron asked.

"Er... he just showed up at my door today," Harry answered truthfully.

"What do you call him?" Hermione wanted to know.

Harry smiled maliciously.

"Fluffy."

If Hermione was going to make any comment about how the grey cat was rather sleek and not at all fluffy, it was lost in the strangled choking sound the cat made upon Harry's pronouncement of his name.

Harry leaned over to pat the cat gently, and asked, "Hairball, Fluffy?"

The cat just glowered... and continued to glower as long as Ron and Hermione were there. He moved around the kitchen, sniffing everything disdainfully, including Hermione and Ron, who Harry supposed smelled like Crookshanks. He finally wound up glaring down at them all from the top of the refrigerator.

"He's not... very friendly, is he?" asked Ron.

"I think he's had a hard time lately – he looked pretty pitiful when he first showed up here." Harry took the opportunity to shoot the cat a smirk. It hissed in response.

When the meal was over and the conversation had run its course, Harry had seen Ron & Hermione off back into the fireplace, with love for the rest of the Weasleys and an invitation for Mr. Weasley to come visit him. The man's fascination with Muggles was stronger than ever, and Harry had promised to show him around the neighborhood sometime.

Harry returned to the kitchen to find Malfoy perched on the counter, eating a sandwich and drinking from a bottle of beer. Evidently, the refrigerator hadn't proved an insurmountable obstacle, after all.

"Aren't they just the cutest thing?" Malfoy asked snidely. "Already working on the next generation of Weasleys, are they?"

Harry supposed that it was true, but he really didn't see how it was any of Malfoy's business, and he told Malfoy so.

"And what about you, Potter? You must have women – and a fair few men, as well -- lining up to date the Boy Who Lived."

"There've been... offers," Harry said, not seeing as he needed to elaborate to Malfoy, of all people.

Nearly all of his surviving schoolmates had paired off with alarming speed after the war was over. Most of them were either married or engaged, and a few were even expecting babies already. He supposed it was a natural reaction after such devastation – to prove that life went on, and to enjoy the life you were given.

As for Harry, he really hadn't found anyone he could see getting seriously involved with. He'd spent the last two years at Hogwarts alternating between lusting after Ginny and lusting after Ron. Ginny had gotten tired of his waffling and married Oliver Wood, and Ron had never figured out that Harry had had feelings for him – or if he had, he had never acted on it.

The Boy Who Lived to be Bisexual... wouldn't the Prophet just love that headline? It was just another reason to leave the Wizarding World behind – all he needed was them speculating on his love life some more.

After moving to Muggle London, Harry had visited a few Muggle gay bars. He hadn't lacked for offers, and it was somewhat gratifying to know the option was available if things got desperate, but he'd been rather uncomfortable with the idea of sex with a random stranger, and he hadn't been back in some months. Most of the men honestly seemed only interested in sex, and Harry honestly felt that he would like something more than that. So Harry had tried to put it out of his mind until such time when he found someone he could really be comfortable with, and who was comfortable with him being a Wizard. That seemed a tall order, and he was prepared to wait for it. He supposed abstinence wasn't so bad, even if he was a little better acquainted with his right hand than he might have liked.

Actually, now that he thought of it, Malfoy seemed to be one of the few people who hadn't settled down with someone. Harry didn't wonder why, with that attitude of his. But then again, some of his more obnoxious schoolmates hadn't seemed to have trouble finding someone, and Harry had honestly been surprised when Pansy Parkinson and Malfoy hadn't married – it had always seemed that she was throwing herself at Malfoy during school, and there had been talk of some sort of arranged marriage between them, but he could never be sure what was real and what was talk – there was still so much about the Wizarding world he didn't understand. So many of its customs were archaic and foreign to Harry.

"And you, Malfoy? I suppose you've got so many women you don't know what to do with them all."

"I could certainly get any woman I wanted," Malfoy said haughtily. "I simply don't want any. Wrong gender, you see."

Harry thought his jaw must have made a clanging noise as it hit the floor. There had certainly been enough rumors during school that Malfoy played, erm, Quidditch for both teams. But he was very surprised to hear the truth behind the rumors. He'd always assumed that someone so obsessed with being pure-blooded would marry a pure-blood woman and make lots of little pure-blood heirs.

Obviously, Malfoy noticed something amiss, because he grinned and said snidely, "Shut your mouth, Potter. Is it so shocking that I prefer men? Surely you heard the rumors. And I seem to remember you spending an... unnatural amount of time drooling over Weasley. Good Salazar, I'm not going to ravish you in the middle of the night, so you can rest easy."

"As if I would want you to, Malfoy. I'm not that desperate!" Oh, yes, really mature, Harry.

"Oh? And who do you want to ravish you? Weasley, perhaps? Too bad – Granger's got him whipped."

"It's none of your business! And anyway, I'm completely over Ron," Harry said angrily. This was getting worse and worse. Who did Malfoy think he was, talking about Harry's sex life?

"That's really mature, Potter," Malfoy said with another one of those accursed smirks. "Although it was awfully nice of you to confirm what I was fairly sure of – that the Boy Who Lived is really The Boy Who Swung Both Ways."

Just then, one of the teacups in the sink exploded, jolting Harry back to reality.

He heard, but didn't register for a moment, Malfoy's hiss of pain. Then he turned and saw the blood. Malfoy had picked a largish shard of china out of his upper arm just under the band of his sleeve, and was studying it intently. A thin trickle of blood was winding its way down his arm and over the faded Death Eater mark on his forearm.

Oh, brilliant. Harry's magic escaped once in awhile when he was especially angry or upset – there was the famous incident with Aunt Marge to remember, for example – and Harry supposed that was what had happened this time as well. He grabbed a towel off the counter and pressed it to Malfoy's arm. Malfoy covered Harry's hand with his own, and Harry quickly slid his hand out from under Malfoy's, leaving Malfoy with the towel.

Harry walked out of the kitchen and to the bathroom, where he located a bandage and some antiseptic liquid. He returned to the kitchen, poured a bit of the liquid on a piece of gauze, and handed it to Malfoy.

Malfoy swiped the gauze up his arm, collecting the blood. He hissed when the antiseptic touched the cut, but pressed the gauze to the wound, lifting it occasionally to see if the bleeding had stopped. The cut wasn't as severe as it looked, apparently, because it stopped fairly soon. Malfoy pressed the bandage over the wound, after stopping for a moment to puzzle over the tabs on the back before figuring out that they peeled off.

Malfoy finished cleaning off his arm, then took the last swallow of his beer, before jumping down from the counter, causing Harry to back up abruptly – Malfoy really wasn't that much taller than Harry, but right then it had seemed so. Malfoy yawned, and suddenly he looked much younger than his twenty years, and much wearier than anyone that age should be.

"I think I'm going to go to sleep," he said. "Mind if I use your shower?"

"No," Harry replied. "Go ahead."

"I'll be naked in there, you know," Malfoy said with a leer. "With water running over my --"

"Malfoy!"

"You're such a prude, Potter. I could rock your world."

"Thank you, but no," Harry said with a grimace. That was not something he wanted to think about.

With that, Malfoy walked from the kitchen, and a few minutes later Harry heard the bathroom door shut, and then the sound of the water running. He washed the dirty dishes, after cleaning up the teacup remnants, and folded the clothes that were in the dryer. Then he wandered into the living room. He turned on the TV, but couldn't find anything he wanted to watch, so he finally decided he would go to bed, too. It had been a long day for him as well.

He was awakened abruptly by the sound of yelling and explosions. He bolted upright in bed, noticing it was light. He glanced at the clock – nearly 7:00 a.m. The flat was being attacked in broad daylight! He grabbed his wand and his glasses and ran for the living room. He skidded around the corner, and saw...

Malfoy stood in the middle of the living room, holding the telly remote. The TV was playing some sort of action movie, and it was playing it at top volume. Malfoy was pressing buttons on the remote frantically, but he wasn't making anything happen.

Malfoy turned and brandished the remote at Harry. Harry took it and pressed the down volume button repeatedly, bringing the sound down to a less painful level.

"It wouldn't turn off!" Malfoy said. "I sat on... that..." He said it as if the remote was some sort of disgusting, slimy thing – "and it started yelling and exploding and I didn't know what to do."

So it came to be that on that Saturday morning, Harry Potter gave Draco Malfoy an impromptu tutorial in how to use the telly remote. Eventually, he had to get ready for work, and he left Malfoy sitting on the couch, happily watching animals rip each other apart on some nature programme. It really figured, Harry thought, that Malfoy would like those programmes.

When Harry was dressed, he went to the kitchen for some breakfast and was surprised to see Malfoy braving the toaster. He was even more surprised that, when the toast popped up, it wasn't burned, and surprised yet again when Malfoy handed him the plate.

"Thank you," Harry stammered as he applied butter and jam to the toast, feeling as though he'd been dropped into an alternate dimension.

'Well, you saved me from that – that felly. My honor dictates I do something in return. And the infernal thing burned the first six slices – I threw them out the window already."

"It's called telly, Malfoy," Harry corrected absently.

"Well, it's marvelous when it's not screaming at you," Malfoy said with a smirk. "All those ferocious animals, and those gorgeous sweaty men running around after a little ball, and all those people singing... how do they get in there?"

Harry set the plate down, and tucked his wand into a hidden pocket on the side of his pants leg. He shrugged into his jacket, picked up his toast, and said, "It'll take too long to explain. I'll be at work until 7 tonight. The number's here – oh, you don't know how to work a phone, either, do you?"

Draco shook his head, clearly mystified yet again. Harry was beginning to feel like the king of tutorials by this point, but he instructed Draco on the basics of the phone.

"It's called Borders, where I work," Harry said. "Help yourself to whatever food you want, and remember you're to Floo the Aurors if you go anywhere."

"I'm not a child, Potter," Malfoy said, sounding irritated again. "I know what I'm to do."

"Fine," said Harry. "I'll see you later."

Then, Harry Potter walked out of the front door of the flat and left Draco Malfoy standing in the middle of the kitchen.

The newest batch of toast popped up, and Draco jumped at the sound. He ate his toast, then showered and changed into his only other set of clothes. He'd been allowed a very small amount of money by the Ministry for emergency supplies, but was not allowed to access his own vault or his mother's, in case they was being watched and it might be possible to figure out where he had gone. He didn't want to put his mother in danger – she had been through enough. The contents of her vault would be barely enough to support her, anyway – after Draco's father's death, the Ministry had seized most of Lucius Malfoy's assets as compensation for war crimes, so Draco and his mother, while not destitute, were certainly far less well off than they had used to be. He supposed he'd have to see about getting a job, because Potter wasn't going to be willing to foot the bill for him forever. But for today, he was going to get thoroughly acquainted with the wonderful telly.

Draco spent a good part of the morning and early afternoon channel-surfing, puzzling over some of the shows he encountered, and becoming interested in others. There was a channel that seemed to be entirely devoted to the wars Muggles fought with other Muggles, and another about decorating your home. There were channels entirely about cooking, and channels where people sang and danced all the time. There was a channel that seemed to consist entirely of nude women, which he watched for a few moments, morbidly fascinated and wondering if there was a nude men channel. There were also several channels with a variety of animal programs, and he wondered for a moment why Muggles were so interested in watching animals tear each other apart.

He took a break to get a sandwich, but eventually, his interest in the telly waned, and finally he stood and stretched, feeling his vertebrae crack as he bent far over backwards. He was hungry again, too, but nothing in the refrigerator looked appealing. He knew Muggles had restaurants, and thought he'd go see what one was like. It was bound not to be as good as Wizard food, but as Potter only seemed to have Muggle food, he really had only two choices – the Muggle food in the refrigerator, or the Muggle food in the world outside. He took his wallet – it contained Muggle money now, converted by Gringott's and given to him by Kingsley. He wasn't exactly sure what the little paper notes were worth, but he could figure it out.

Just before leaving the flat, he remembered to Floo the Aurors. They gave him permission to go out, provided he was back by 8:00 pm. and instructions to return to the flat immediately at the first sign of any danger.

He pulled his only sweater on over his shirt, and combed his fingers through his hair. He inspected himself in the mirror – he'd pass on appearance, although perhaps not by much. He still looked tired and worn-out, he thought, and the combination of the short-sleeved sweater over the long-sleeved, collared shirt was an odd one. Maybe a walk around the neighborhood would do him good. The weather appeared to be better today than yesterday, at least, so he didn't think he'd need his cloak.

He headed out of the flat, nodding to one of Harry's neighbors at the mailboxes. He got to the end of the small sidewalk in front of the house, and debated for a moment about which way to go, then basically chose one at random. Left, it was.

It wasn't very many blocks before he started to encounter some businesses, and among them were several restaurants, judging from the smells coming from the buildings and the photos of food on the windows. One restaurant advertised something called "Big Mac" and Draco wondered what exactly that was. It looked to be an enormous sandwich of some kind, but he couldn't understand the need to give it such an uncouth name. There was another place that seemed to serve Asian food, and one with Italian food, but the place with the Big Mac smelled better, so he opened the door and walked into the red and yellow restaurant.

He puzzled over the menu – it was nearly all sandwiches, judging by the photos, but there were many different kinds. Many of them were identified by number, and he finally just chose a number and figured he'd try whatever he got. He was hungry enough by this point that it probably wouldn't matter much what it was – he was almost certainly going to eat it.

"I would like a number 5, please," Draco said to the young man at the counter.

"Fries with that?"

Draco wasn't sure what was meant by that, but decided not to ask. He just nodded, figuring he'd see.

He handed the young man behind the counter one of the pieces of paper money with a larger number than the amount on the sign next to what he had ordered. He got an assortment of bills and coins back. Then he was handed a plastic tray with a small paper package, and a paper box of little... sticks of something. There was also a paper cup, and Draco spent some minutes puzzling over the drink machines. The label on one of the spigots looked familiar, and he realized Potter had cans marked with that same logo in his refrigerator. He managed to pour himself some of the Coke without too much trouble.

He sat at one of the booths and picked up one of the sticks. He sniffed it curiously – it smelled like potato, and yet not exactly. He shrugged and put it in his mouth. It was excellent! He quickly ate a few more of the Fries, as they were identified on the box, then unwrapped his sandwich. It was labeled Cheeseburger, and it was good, too, although the Fries were better. The Coke wasn't bad either, but he liked the beer that Potter had better. When he had finished his meal, he looked around the restaurant. He dumped his trash in the bin, following another person's lead, and then went back out onto the street.

He wandered into many different stores, but with his limited money, he couldn't really afford to buy anything. He saw a few signs in windows indicating that the stores were hiring, and made a mental note to come back in a few days and see about a job at one of them – he couldn't very well just sit around watching the telly all day, and as much as working was a foreign concept to him, he supposed he had no other choice if he was to have any money – what the Ministry had given him would have to go toward a few essentials, like another set of clothes, but it wouldn't last far beyond that.

It was starting to get late – near to 7:00 according to the clock on the wall of one of the shops he'd ducked into – and he was starting to tire of walking, so Draco started for Potter's flat.

The walk back to the flat went quickly enough, and he was glad it had, as it had gotten cold and his sweater wasn't adequate protection against the autumn chill.

When he arrived, he let himself into the flat with the key Potter had given him and toed off his shoes in the hallway. The telly was playing, and he could hear clattering in the kitchen. His stomach rumbled, reminding him that he was hungry. The Cheeseburger and Fries had been some time ago, after all.

He walked into the kitchen and saw Potter, back to him and engrossed in whatever he was doing. Draco couldn't resist, and he crept silently up behind Potter. When he was standing so near he was practically touching Potter, he said, "Hello, Potter," quite loudly.

The reaction was as good as he had hoped. This was just like school, except with no McGonagall to tell him not to pick on her pet pupil, or take points, or give him detention. Potter made a truly embarrassing squeaking sound and spun around, eyes wide behind his glasses, and brandishing a wooden spoon in front of him.

"My God, Malfoy. What are you trying to do?" Harry asked, sounding annoyed. But Draco thought he detected a bit of humor in Potter's voice as well.

Draco put on his best "who – me?" face and said, "I was simply telling you hello."

"Yes – right," Potter said, looking as if he didn't believe it at all.

"What are you doing?" Draco asked, leaning around Potter to see what was on the stove.

"I'm cooking – what does it look like? You can set the table."

Draco found the plates and silverware and glasses with a few more opened doors and drawers than he'd hoped, but eventually the table was set, and Potter was carrying a large, roundish pot over to the table.

Draco looked in and saw what looked like vegetables... and chicken, perhaps. All swimming around in a brown sauce that wafted a lovely smell his way. A pot of rice came next, and then Harry sat down and waited for Draco to do the same.

Harry wondered what Malfoy would think of the stir-fry. It probably wasn't much like what he was used to – all fancy food, served by house elves. Well, he could either eat this or nothing, Harry thought. Harry wasn't much of a cook, but at least he knew how to cook a few things, which was probably more than Malfoy knew.

He dished himself up a portion of the rice and the stir-fry and took a drink of his water. Malfoy did much the same, then looked down at his plate as if he wasn't quite sure what to do with it.

"Eat," Harry commanded, and Malfoy picked up his fork and speared a piece of vegetable. They ate in silence, and Harry reflected how truly odd this day had been. Odd, but not exactly unpleasant, no. True, he'd been awakened at an ungodly hour by the television, but the flat hadn't been attacked as he'd thought. And he'd been truly amused, watching Malfoy try to figure out his way around the Muggle world. Harry was grudgingly admiring – he thought Malfoy had adapted far better to the Muggle world than he had to the Wizarding one.

When they were finished eating, Harry picked up his plate and glass and carried them to the sink. Draco followed suit.

"Wash or dry?" he asked. Malfoy looked at him blankly. "The dishes, Malfoy – do you want to wash or dry?"

"Erm," Draco said. He'd never done either before. "Dry, I suppose."

The task of washing and drying the dishes went quickly enough, and when they were all put away, Harry walked to the living room. Draco trailed behind, unsure of what to do now. Harry sat down on the sofa and just as quickly got back up again as that – phone, was it? -- rang.

Harry answered it, and as Malfoy watched him listen to whoever was on the other end, he blushed and actually stammered a bit. Malfoy wondered who it was that could make Harry Potter act like a first-year again, and he got his answer soon enough. After Harry hung up the phone, he said, "Yes!" in a happy tone.

"Good news, Potter?" Draco asked.

"I, erm, have a date next weekend," Potter said, still blushing. "With Derek." He said the man's name in a love-struck tone that made Draco smirk.

"And this Derek --" he mimicked Potter's tone and watched as Potter cringed, realizing how he must have sounded -- "what is he like?"

"He's um, nice," Harry said.

"Nice? You smile and blush and act like a first year over 'nice'? Then again, you mooned over Weasley, so obviously you have no taste in men."

"Well, you'll just take the piss if I try to tell you about him, so you'll see him on Friday, I imagine," Harry said, obviously thinking that he couldn't find a way to describe Derek that didn't sound moony.

Draco smirked again and settled into the sofa, finding one of those games with the men and the little ball on the telly. He didn't understand what was going on, but the men were nice enough to look at, and he wasn't sure his brain was up to anything very demanding, anyway.

"I'm going to bed, Malfoy," Harry said.

"Good night, Potter," Draco said absently, then goggled at himself. Had he truly just said something genuinely nice to Potter, of all people? He was really slipping. Then he remembered something.

"Potter?"

"Yes?"

"How do you wash clothes?"

This led to a demonstration of the washer and dryer, and an admonition from Potter not to put his sweater or the wool pants in the dryer, but to hang them up, because the dryer would shrink them. Draco measured the soap carefully, and poured it in, then added his clothes and watched the water suck them under as the washer began to agitate.

Potter walked out of the room and Draco heard the water running, then the apartment was quiet other than the telly. The game wasn't very interesting when he didn't understand. He'd have to see if Potter knew what was going on, and if he would explain.

Draco retrieved the wet sweater and pants from the washer, put his shirt, socks, and underwear in the dryer as Harry had said, added one of the small, filmy, pleasant-smelling sheets, and turned it on. He was getting rather good at this Muggle appliance thing, he thought, with a small surge of pride. He hung the sweater and pants up over the backs of the kitchen chairs as Potter had said to, then went back to the telly to see if he could find something more interesting than that game.

Harry had showered, brushed his teeth, and put on his pajamas, then walked back to his room. As he settled into bed, he thought that today hadn't turned out nearly as bad as he had thought it would be. Malfoy hadn't been nearly as annoying as Harry had been prepared for, and had actually seemed rather pleasant a few times, wonder of wonders. Work had been fine. The weather had improved. And Derek had called. Harry was very surprised – he'd met Derek at one of the clubs several months ago, and hadn't heard from him since. Derek had seemed very popular and not especially interested in Harry then, but he had accepted Harry's phone number anyway. For him to call out of the blue was unexpected, but not unpleasant. Harry drifted off to sleep with thoughts of the handsome man in his mind.

Eventually, Draco became bored of the telly, and decided to go to bed as well. He retrieved his now-dry pajamas from the dryer and changed into them. He climbed into bed and punched the pillows, getting comfortable. As he lay there, waiting for sleep to take him, he thought about all that had happened to him in the last four days – nearly killed, attacked with Cruciatus, leaving his home and nearly all of his possessions behind, forced to ask the Ministry for help, forced to ask Harry bloody Potter for help...

... finding out that Potter wasn't at all the self-absorbed moron Draco had always taken him for. Finding out he could actually be decent. Finding out things about Muggle life he'd never expected or wanted to know – how to work a telly, how to work a phone, how to work a toaster, how to wash clothes. Finding out that Potter was willing to put their past animosity behind them, if only so they could live together without killing each other. Finding out he had more internal strength than he'd thought – strength to adapt to a situation he'd at first thought horrible, but which he was already starting to get used to.

Sure enough, it had been a very interesting few days.

Draco found himself smiling as he let himself drift into sleep.

Yes, it was very interesting and unexpected, indeed.


End file.
